Love Thy Enemy
by Donny's Boy
Summary: Sequel to Eye for an Eye. When an old enemy resurfaces and millions of lives are at stake, April O'Neil is forced to team up with a former friend turned current enemy, none other than Donatello. Set in 2003 series universe.
1. Part I: Redemption

"Love Thy Enemy" 

By Donny's Boy

---

Disclaimer: I own neither the characters nor the plot relating to the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, and I am making no money from this story. I mean no harm.

Warnings: Er, basically everything. Mature language, violence (no gore), brief mention (but not depiction) of sexual assault, and implied depicted character death.

Author's Notes: This is the sequel to "Eye for an Eye." It is canon to both "Eye for an Eye" and "Ashes to Ashes."

---

_**Part I: Redemption**_

"_A sensei once counseled a grief-stricken boy as his older brother prepared to leave for battle. He said, 'Child, why do you cry? You are both part of a _family_. And a family is a bond that cannot be broken by war, by strife, by force or neglect."  
–Hamato Splinter, TMNT: Movie Novelization_

**Prologue**

My lungs feel like they're about to fucking _explode_.

But as my feet pound along the unforgiving concrete of innumerable rooftops, I don't dare let my pace slacken. Because he's right behind me. Over the beating of my heart, the distant sounds of a wailing siren and whirring helicopter, and the raggedness of my breath, I can hear his echoing footsteps. He must be within fifty yards of me now.

Too close.

I reach the end of a rooftop and, clutching the strap of my bag, launch myself off the edge. I hit the next rooftop so hard that for a moment I'm afraid my shin-bones will splinter and crack. But they don't. Instead, I just stumble and fall. I quickly correct for the mistake with a front roll. And as soon as I'm off the ground, once again I'm racing off at full-speed. Hazarding a glance over my shoulder, I see my pursuer just as he lands on my rooftop. Even in the dark of a cloudless night I can see the white of his smile. Unlike me, however, his jump doesn't even break his rhythm.

Which means he's way too close now. Twenty yards, at most. But there's no time for second-guessing or regrets. I can only go forward.

Inevitably, after a few more roof-jumps, my luck runs out. I've long since lost track of where I've been heading, merely running on instinct. And now, the next roof is not below or level but far, far above me. Above the deafening noise of blood rushing through my ears I notice that the helicopter is getting nearer.

As I reach the end of the roof, I squint in the dark and try to make out the details of the next building—perhaps there's a ledge or fire escape I can try to jump onto. But no. The building side facing me is a smooth, flat monolith, with nothing I can even try to latch onto. To jump would be suicide.

Well, damn. When I reach the edge of the roof, I glance over the side of the roof, with the thought of climbing down since I can't go up. But I don't see anything that offers any hope of a foothold. Just as I glance back up, my follower stops and, near enough now that I can see his eyes, pulls out his gun.

"Give it to me," he barks, sounding as out of breath as I am.

Still holding tightly to my bag, I step onto the ledge of the roof. Suicide it is. "Not likely," I tell him, trying _not_ to sound as out of breath as I am.

I begin to lean back, mentally preparing myself to feel the air rush around me as I topple to my death. Then I freeze, as a blinding light cuts through the night like a lightening flash.

In the confusion, the man drops his gun and lifts his hands to cover his eyes while I use my bag as a shade. The helicopter is right on top of us now, its large propeller blades beating angrily against the air above. Its large spotlight is focused on my would-be attacker. A ladder drops down, with a man holding onto it. The helicopter man is lit from behind, no more than a black silhouette, and he holds out a hand to me while shouting something that I can't hear over the copter noise.

The stranger's intention is unmistakable—he wants me to grab on. Which presents me with an interesting dilemma as to whether I should go with the devil I do know or the devil I don't know. But since in the situation with the devil I do know I was about to jump to my death, the decision is easy. Door number two, it is.

Squinting, I try to gauge the distance between me and the bottom of the ladder. It's fairly high above me but not impossibly so. I squat a little, try to muster up some reserve power in my tired legs, and like a spring uncoiling, leap as high as I can. Just as I feel myself begin to fall, a strong hand grabs my wrist and lifts me up. Groping with my free hand, I touch the rough rope of the ladder and hang on for dear life.

The helicopter begins to leave as my rescuer and I carefully climb up. He gets in first, his face still covered in darkness, and offers me a hand up, which I accept. As soon as I'm inside the helicopter's cabin, I sag back into the nearest seat and close my eyes. At this point I almost don't care what happens to me or whose helicopter I'm in. I'm exhausted. All I care about is sleep.

When I open my eyes, I find that a small cabin light allows me to see, for the first time, the stranger who has rescued me. Except, he isn't a stranger.

"My God," I gasp. My voice, ripped to shreds from all my heavy breathing, is little more than a whisper.

"Good evening, April," Donatello says politely, wearing a small smile. "It's a pleasure to see you again."


	2. Chapter 1: Donatello

**Chapter 1**

Though I know I am a pot calling a kettle black, I cannot help but notice how different April looks. The streaks of gray that run through her now-short hair add an aura of wisdom and maturity to her. There are a few more lines around her mouth, around her eyes. She looks tired. She _is_ tired. But for some reason I'm convinced that, were she to smile, the weariness and age would melt away instantly.

However, she is not smiling at the moment. Not even a little. Glaring at me, she yells over the loud beating of the helicopter, "How on earth did you find me?"

I hesitate, just a moment. She won't like the answer. Her eyes narrow, and I wonder if she can read my mind.

"I put a tracker on you," I reply, "the last time we visited." Hollowly I chuckle, as I think again of her one-woman siege on my office in the Saki building. "You know, when you tried to kill me?"

"I remember." Her voice is little more than a bark. She is not amused.

Leaning forward, I reach towards her, and she immediately recoils. I sigh in frustration. "Relax. I'm just showing you the tracker." I take the left-hand sleeve of her jacket and roll it back a bit. There is a tiny black dot near the hem, and I point to it.

She squints. "Damn, that's tiny," is all she says.

"The wonders of nanotechnology, eh?" I pause, waiting for her to ask how I managed to tag her. But she doesn't ask. Probably just to spite me. With another sigh, I continue, "It was my security guard. When you passed through the metal detector, I asked him to hand your jacket back to you as an excuse to place the tracker."

Slipping a fingernail under the tracker, she lifts it off and, with a look of distaste, flicks it away. "Clever," she mutters, then turns to look out the helicopter's windows.

I fold my hands in my lap and glance down at them. Even after all these years of disguise, all I see are strange, foreign hands—not my hands, not at all—with oddly pale flesh and five too-thin fingers. When I glance back up, I see April staring at my hands, just as I had been.

"How?" she asks suddenly. "I mean, how are you getting the holographic effect? I remember you controlling it through a computer in your office, and I don't see anything in the 'copter that could be a projector."

I nod and pull back one of my coat sleeves to reveal my wristwatch. "It's a portable version," I explain while pointing to the watch. "A more finished version of the prototype I'd been working on … beforehand."

She nods and leans forward to study the watch more closely. As she bends down, her hair falls forward, and a few strands lightly tickle the back of my hand. To my annoyance, a small shiver runs down my spine. Meanwhile, completely unaware, April shoves her hair back from her face in irritation.

When she leans back, her curiosity sated, a silence descends upon us once again. This one is shorter, however, as soon April turns to me with a slightly worried look on her face.

"Don, where are we going?"

"Somewhere safe."

She crosses her arms over her chest. "Define 'safe' for me, please."

"To the Saki building," I clarify. "There are a few secret rooms there. Baxter's people won't find us. Not for a while, at least."

Her eyes widen a bit. "How did you—"

"Know that Baxter Stockman's after you?" I grin. I've stumped her, and as petty a victory it is, I find a certain satisfaction in it. "I have people within President Bishop's administration, within the CIA, within the FBI. And, of course, the National Science Foundation." I frown as I think that Bishop—good old fuck-crazy Agent John Bishop—has not only been elected to the highest office in the land but has also appointed Dr. Stockman, of all people, as director of the NSF. "Suffice it to say," I conclude, with a bitter taste on my tongue, "that I like to keep track on what my old friends are up to."

She smiles and allows herself a small laugh. In a slightly less hostile tone than before, she asks, "So, am I on the FBI's most wanted list or anything?"

"No, I'm afraid not. From what my sources tell me, Baxter is apparently a rogue agent in Bishop's administration, acting outside the president's authority."

Her smile widens. "Darn. Well, a girl can dream."

"My condolences." I raise an eye brow. "Better luck next time."

Suddenly she stops laughing, and her eyes shrink to tiny slits. "Donatello," she says in a now-serious tone, and one that I've learned to recognize as portending danger. "Why did you bother to save me back there? And why are you still helping me?" She looks me dead in the eye. "What's in it for _you_?"

A lot of things, actually.

But all I say is, "Very simple." Which is a lie, to say the least. "The enemy of my enemy is my friend." Which is, for once, not a lie.

---

Author's Notes: First, I've rechristened the last chapter a "prologue" but the content's the exact same. Just a stylistic thing. Thank you for reading and reviewing—I do hope this story lives up to expectations. Though the loose ends and ambiguities of "Ashes to Ashes" will probably remain loose and ambiguous.

Oh, and President Bishop? I had so totally written a draft of this chapter before _Fast Forward_ introduced President Bishop! I actually rewrote this to make Stockman the baddie to keep it within the FF canon of a reformed, good-guy Bishop. Also, Baxter's just plain fun.


	3. Chapter 2: April

**Chapter 2**

As I wander along the perimeter of the luxuriously-appointed office for Saki Industries' head honcho, I reach out and run my fingertips over everything I see. The last time I was here, I came with a very specific, important mission—to kill Don Hamato. I didn't have time to stop and take in the sights. Now I'm here for a very different reason, and I've decided to take full advantage of the opportunity.

Also, it buys me time. I haven't decided yet whether I'm going to show Don what's in my bag. I haven't decided whether it's worth it to even try to trust him.

I touch a leather-upholstered armchair, then its matching mate. The leather is as soft as butter. My fingers trip along the antique oak of a an intricately-carved end table, along the polished steel of filing cabinets, along the gold frames of oil paintings hanging on the walls. Then I pause. In front of me is a small glass display box, containing what looks like—a ponytail? Yes, it is. It's a cropped blonde ponytail.

Suddenly all the pieces fall into place for me, and I whirl around towards Don. He is standing by his desk, watching me with dark, attentive eyes. "Did you kill him?" I blurt out, knowing that he'll understand perfectly what I mean. "Personally, that is."

Donatello quirks an eyebrow in my direction. Then he shrugs. "After I took over Saki Industries, we had a round of … _lay-offs_."

Silently I digest this. So. He killed Hun. I try half-heartedly to muster up some outrage at this and, unsurprisingly, I fail. But I don't know whether it's because Don has committed such worse crimes or whether it's because I might have done the same thing.

"It was Hun who killed Casey," I say aloud.

Don nods and glances away. "I know. He almost killed Raph, too."

I'd forgotten that. I wonder who Don was avenging—Casey or Raph. Or heck, maybe even me. I don't ask because I'm not sure he'd answer. Also, I'm not sure I want to know. For a moment I study him, his falsely human features bathed in shadows, and find myself saying, "Turn off the holographs."

His attention snaps back to me, and I can see the surprise in his expression. But Don doesn't say a word, doesn't protest or toss off a witty retort. Instead, he slowly lifts his wrist. His hand looks white under the moonlight. Then, with a swift press of a button, the shadows flicker, and the hand turns a sickly gray-green, five fingers replaced with three.

"And for my next parlor trick," he says, with a soft chuckle, "I shall pull a rabbit out of my hat."

"You don't _have_ a hat." Smiling, I think about where I was an hour ago. I'd been ready to leap off a building. So maybe it's only fitting for me to take a more metaphorical leap right now. "Say, Don, would you like to see what I have that's made Stockman sic his goons on me?"

Immediately his eyes brighten. "I thought you'd never ask."

Twenty minutes later, we're both seated at Don's large desk, squinting at his computer screen. Though it's been many years since I'd officially retired from the tech industry, I still have contacts. And I still have ears. After hearing of some of the dark events surrounding the current NSF administration, I'd managed to sneak into my old boss's new office, to steal a few computer files. But the files—to neither Don's nor my surprise—are heavily encrypted.

"You know, April, we _could_ just assassinate the bastard," Donatello grouses, leaning back in his chair. His frustration, at having so far failed to crack the code, is palpable.

"It's not enough to just take down Stockman. We have to take down the entire NSF. Maybe Bishop's entire administration." I throw up my hands in frustration. "What do you propose we do about _that_? Blow up all of Washington, D.C.?"

He shoots me a grin. "While that'd make for a spectacular light show, I suppose you might be right."

I almost die in shock. Me, right about something? Egads. But before I can pursue the topic, he's already lost in his own world, eyes narrowed, hand thoughtfully rubbing his chin.

"Actually," he says slowly, cautiously, "we might not have to kill anyone. You'd prefer that, I assume?"

"Yes. By all means, feel free to assume that."

"It does put us at a distinct disadvantage—I'm quite sure Baxter won't find it necessary to operate under similar moral constraints—but so be it." He cocks his head. His eyes burn with an old, familiar fire. "We don't need to kill. We just need to discredit."

I see where he's going. "A scandal. Or a serious political misstep."

"Exactly."

That settled, we return our attention to the matter at hand. Don runs another decryption program, while I glare at the incomprehensible lines of characters. This is ridiculous. With two old pros like us, this should be easy. Or at least easier than it's been so far. Then, it hits me like a freight train. It's not about computers. It's about Stockman himself. Because, despite his various physical manifestations over the years, the essence of Dr. Stockman never changes. He's egotistical, petty, overly self-assured.

And, most importantly, Stockman holds one helluva grudge.

"Oroku Saki," I say, feeling confident I'm right.

Brow furrowed, Don looks up from the computer. "What about him? He's dead."

"I _know_ that," I reply impatiently. "I meant, 'Oroku Saki' is the encryption password."

Don looks dubious and raises an eye-ridge as if about to challenge me. But then he simply shakes his head and types in the password. I hold my breath. If I'm wrong about this, I'll never hear the end of it. But then, a moment later Don grins wildly and grabs me in a quick hug. On screen, the mysterious characters dissolve into paragraphs of blessedly readable text.

"Jackpot," I crow in triumph. I grin back at him for a few seconds before I suddenly pull away. I can feel the blood drain from my face. Don looks at me with a confused expression, his head slightly cocked to one side.

"You know what this reminds me of?"

Donatello's confused look slips away. He nods solemnly. "Old times."

"Yeah. Old times."

Despite not wanting to, my mind flashes back to those days, so many years ago now. Back when we weren't just friends, we were family. I think of all the times, against so many different enemies, we plotted together and hacked together and fought together. Back when we lived, and we died, together.

God. I hadn't realized just how much I've missed that. How I've missed _him_.

Softly Don clears his throat, and my mind jumps back to the present. "Let's not talk about it," he says, looking and sounding every bit as uncomfortable as I feel.

"Eyes on the prize, eh, Mr. Hamato?" I force my tone into a cockiness I don't even remotely feel.

"Indeed, Dr. O'Neil." With a wan smile, he shakes his head. "Eyes on the prize."

---

Author's Notes: So this chapter's a bit longer. (And yes, I must admit to feeling a bit smug about President Bishop. It was pretty cool.) The "action" in this action/adventure picks up a bit more starting next chapter, by the way. As always, thanks for reading!


	4. Chapter 3: Donatello

**Chapter 3**

While Baxter has always been quite the character, even I'm surprised at what April's stolen files reveal. He's insane. I would say that he's always been insane, but that isn't entirely true. There was a time, before Saki's maiming began, before my brothers and I, that he was sane. Pompous, yes, and self-absorbed—but perfectly lucid. But Stockman lost his grip on reality a long time ago.

It's sad, really. He's trying to build a doomsday device. Nuclear powered. What a pathetic self-parody. A _doomsday_ device? Good Lord. Those last few body transplants must really not have been easy on the good doctor.

"If we could somehow get this information to President Bishop," April muses aloud.

Mulling over the idea, I decide to play devil's advocate. "There's no guarantee that Bishop doesn't know about this. For all you know, Bishop could have authorized this personally."

"But _you_ don't think Bishop knows, do you?"

"No, I don't," I admit, a bit reluctantly. "Even Bishop isn't crazy enough to want to kill off the entire planet."

April nods. "But Dr. Stockman is. Poor man must be so miserable."

Poor man? For a second I gape, convinced that she's joking, but she's not. Her face speaks the truth—she feels sorry for him. Even after everything he's put her through. Everything he's put all of us through.

Among my many hatreds, I have always held a special place for Baxter Stockman and John Bishop. Karai and the Shredder destroyed my family, true, but at least they treated us as equals. To the likes of Baxter, I was just an experiment. A freak. And the entire time, I have been _every bit_ as smart as them. Smarter, even, if I'm honest.

But before I can begin to protest against April's bleeding heart, I'm cut off by a screaming alarm. It occurs to me that perhaps I did not give Baxter his due. He's found April much sooner than I'd expected.

It's ninja time.

Jumping out of my desk chair, I reach the security station in three long steps. "Stockman's in the building," I call to April over my shoulder, quickly entering the access code to shut off the alarm.

"We have to get out of here, Donny. We have to keep the files safe."

"Forget the files." Turning on my heel, I head back to my desk. "We need to keep us safe."

After grabbing myself a bag from behind the desk, I toss April her own bag, and she catches it easily, without so much as a flinch. I find myself cheering up a bit. That was a good catch. Really good. So good that I begin to entertain the heartening thought that maybe we _won't_ both die within the next ten minutes.

Unfortunately, there's no time to do a full calculation of our survival odds. Instead I walk over to the cabinets lining the opposite wall and, before April can ask what's going on, I've unlocked the cabinets to reveal the booty inside—shelf upon shelf, row upon row, of every nasty weapon imaginable. April's jaw drops. I grab a high-powered grenade off the top shelf and lob it to her.

Startled, she fumbles it for a moment before finally getting a firm grip on it. "You son of a—"

"Careful with that!" I point to the grenade. "Very powerful."

As she glowers angrily, I toss a few more grenades to her. She catches them all and tucks them safely into the bag. Next I toss her a gun—the gun she left behind after her last visit here. _Her_ gun. Then, having seen to April's proper armament, I quickly fill my own bag with goodies. A few grenades, a few smoke bombs, some ammo, and just for variety, an automatic laser gun. Lastly, I pick up a glass vial containing thick green liquid.

April squints at it. "What on earth is that?"

"An experimental bio-weapon," I explain, careful to keep my tone casual and indifferent. I pack away the vial, then a syringe, in my bag. "Thought it might be good to have on hand."

"Is it lethal?"

An involuntary smile tugs on the corners of my mouth. "Hopefully not. But if it ever reaches a point where we have to experiment with it—" I glance over to her. "—I suggest you run. Fast."

Looking uneasy at my answer, April grunts but doesn't otherwise respond. She lifts up her gun and checks the safety.

"Ready?"

Her nod is terse, all business. "As I'll ever be."

"All right, then. Let's move." I motion towards the back wall. "We'll take the secret exit."

She follows me over to the hidden crawl-way and, right before I'm about to kneel down, places a restraining hand on my arm. "We shoot as a last resort. Agreed?"

Surely she jests. But one look tells me that she's quite serious. She honestly wants us to face a small army of government agents without firing on them. Finally, sighing heavily, I reply, "Oh, _fine_."

So much for not dying within the first ten minutes. That ridiculous bleeding heart of hers is going to get us massacred.

For a seeming eternity, we crawl through the dark tunnel without speaking. Even though we are concealed behind thick slabs of stone, I can hear the yelling and running from the interior halls. It's hot in here. Reaching up, I tug on the knot on my tie then unbutton the top button of my shirt. Already the sweat is pouring off my forehead.

We reach the end of the tunnel and, faced with no other choice, I carefully crack open the latch and peek outside. The hallway seems clear. "Seems" is not the same as "actually is," of course, but I can sense April getting antsy. She clearly wants out of the tunnel. Besides, we have to leave the tunnel sometime.

Once out, I take the lead, and carefully we creep along the shadows. My hopes for survival begin to rise again. As we move towards the elevators, which will take us to my helicopter, April stays nearly as silent as I do. But then, that's little surprise. She did study stealth under Master Splinter himself.

Splinter. Splinter … mousers … _Stockman_ …

Forget that nonsense about shooting as a last resort. If the good doctor is foolish enough to tangle with me, I shall teach him a little etiquette lesson about invading other scientists' skyscrapers.

Reaching an intersection in the corridor, I turn to check on April. She's sweating as heavily as I am, and her tired, bloodshot eyes don't stay still for a single moment. They jerk back and forth, up and down, side to side. I can practically taste her fear. If she doesn't calm down, she's going to start making mistakes. And mistakes will get us killed.

Just as I'm thinking this, her eyes widen and turn bright, bright green. A moment later, I hear the unmistakable hum of someone charging up a laser rifle, and I can't help but groan. We've just made our first mistake, apparently.

Damn it all to _hell_.

---

Author's Notes: I just saw the TMNT movie featurette, and right now I am so enamored with Marshall Whitfield (Don's voice actor). And just for you, MidnightHeir, I am now writing an epilogue to this story to deal with some of this trilogy's unresolved issues. Hope it doesn't disappoint!


	5. Chapter 4: April

**Chapter 4**

Ignoring Don for the moment, I keep my eyes fixed on Baxter Stockman. He looks like hell. That's no real surprise—neither time nor fate has ever been kind to the man—but his latest incarnation is particularly dour. Just as the last time we'd met, his physical self is down to brain and eyeball. His eye isn't quite as bright and clear as once it was, though, and his robotic body looks worn and a bit rusted.

I barely have a half-second to take in his appearance before I see something much more important. In his hands is a laser rifle.

Now, I never did become a full ninja, but I didn't survive this long by just being pretty. Diving forward, I crash hard into Don's upper plastron, and my momentum and weight are enough to send him toppling backwards. Fortunately, I'm quick enough that the first laser blast misses entirely. Unfortunately, the second blast grazes my knee, sending white-hot pain searing down my entire leg.

As I stagger to my feet, Stockman chuckles. "My former lab assistant _and_ good old Donatello? What a wonderful day this truly is." He reloads his rifle. "Give me what is mine, April dear, and you'll go unharmed."

He's lying through his teeth. Well, he'd be lying through his teeth if he still _had_ teeth …

A flash of light tears across my line of vision, and the next thing I know, Stockman's robotic form is flung against the far wall. Quickly glancing down, I see Don lying sprawled on the floor, staring intently, arm outstretched with smoking laser gun in hand.

"Typical Stockman," gloats Don, jumping to his feet. "Because April was the only one who stood up, April was the only one you were watching." He shakes his head in mock disappointment. "Pitiful."

Just as Stockman begins to stir, Don shoots him again, this time shattering the glass that protects his brain. Stockman cries out in pain, bringing a nasty grin to Don's face, just before his robotic head slumps to his chest. Slowly, like a prowling tiger, Don stalks towards the fallen man.

Meanwhile, I take my gun and check down the hall, but it appears clear. For the moment. I look over my shoulder. Donatello has placed a foot on Stockman's metallic chest and has his gun aimed directly at the exposed, soft, gray flesh of the scientist's brain.

Whirling all the way around, I scream Don's name. But Donatello doesn't even flinch. "I'm just putting him out of his misery," he explains, in a maddeningly conversational tone.

"Remember our deal, Don? Shooting as a last resort?" I knew the deal wouldn't keep the sadistic bastard from killing, every bit as much as I knew that killing was probably going to be inevitable. But I'd hoped it would at least restrain Don a _little_.

"Deals are made to be broken, April."

I can hear the smirk in his voice. As he places his finger on the laser gun's trigger, I take a step forward. My hands begin to shake, and I consciously tighten my hold on my gun so that I won't drop it. Stockman is unconscious, which means he isn't a threat to us anymore. This isn't self-defense here—it's not even fair play. It's simply murder. And I can't just stand by and watch Don kill someone in cold blood. Not even Baxter Stockman.

So I raise my own gun and take aim.

Carefully, steadily, I pull the trigger. The recoil is much stronger than I'd expected, and it sends a jolt down my injured leg. But even though I wince at the pain, even though the bang is deafening, above everything I can hear and feel the thundering of my own heart.

"Shell!"

Immediately Donatello drops his own gun and grabs his bleeding arm. As he falls to one knee, he looks over at me and, to my surprise, he doesn't looks angry. He just looks shocked. He never thought I'd actually shoot him, I can tell. But then the shock slowly drains from his already ashen face, and his eyes narrow down to dangerous slits. He pulls himself to his feet and lurches towards me.

Frozen in place, I tell myself to shoot him again. I have to shoot him again. Our shaky truce has been blown all to pieces, and right now there's nothing to stop _him_ from killing _me_. But for some reason I can't move. I can't even breathe.

He reaches me in three long strides, and my eyes clamp shut involuntarily. I feel him grab my waist and begin fiddling with my belt. Oh God, no. No, not that. Not that. Even he wouldn't … would he? I just don't know. Really, I don't know Donatello at all anymore.

But after ripping my belt off, he lets me go. After a heartbeat or two, I slowly let out the breath I've been holding. Then I open my eyes, in time to see Don wrapping my belt around his bleeding arm. Silently I watch as he gives it a solid tug and fastens it in place.

That accomplished, he glances up and notices that I'm staring. Shrugging slightly, he explains, "I needed something for a tourniquet."

"You have your own belt, y'know." So odd, how quickly my fear has been replaced by annoyance.

He arches an eye-ridge. "Yes. A very _expensive_ ostrich skin belt."

I stare at him, and he stares back. And then, it finally dawns on me—Donatello isn't going to kill me. At least, not at the moment. Then his eyes break away from mine, as he kneels down to retrieve his weapon.

Standing back up, he jerks his head towards the right. "Stockman's people will have heard the laser fire, so let's get a move on."

And, before I've even gotten my bearings back, he begins sprinting down the hall at a full-out run. I take off after him. From behind I can hear voices and, from the sound of things, the voices are getting closer. I speed up, charging towards the relative safety of the elevators, pushing myself so hard that my hurt leg screams in pain with every pounding step.

Just as I round the corner, Donatello reaches the elevators ahead. He holds the door for me and, when I finally catch up, gives me a look filled with grudging admiration. "I must admit, April," he says as soon as the elevator doors close behind us, "that was pretty good aim for such an inexperienced shooter."

"Not really." Despite myself, I grin a little. "I was actually aiming for your head."

---

Author's Notes: Nope, April's not as soft as Don had thought. It's all part of the game those two are playing with one another. And no, this isn't the last chapter at all—there's a few more until the epilogue, I promise.


	6. Chapter 5: Donatello

**Chapter 5**

From outside the elevator, April and I can hear shouts. Instinctively I jump up and grab onto the elevator ceiling with my good hand, while a split-second later April follows suit. And just in the nick of time—the bottom half of the car is ripped to shreds by laser fire from outside. The lasers just miss amputating our feet. They're so close, I can feel their heat stinging my legs.

As the elevator slowly rises, we keep hanging onto the ceiling, even after we're out of the gunmen's range. Because, honestly, there's no telling whether the laser-riddled floor will be able to handle our weight now. I let out a silent sigh of relief once we reach our floor. The doors open, and April swings herself onto the safe, structurally-sound floor outside the elevator car. Just as I'm doing the same I hear her gasp. But it's already too late.

"Drop your weapons!"

Nearly a dozen of Baxter Stockman's agents are standing a mere ten feet away, and all guns are pointed directly at us. I can taste the bitterness on my tongue. We'd gotten _so_ close to reaching the helicopter. Damn it all to hell, I say.

"I said drop them. Now!"

After exchanging a quick glance with one another, April and I drop our guns at almost exactly the same moment.

It's odd. As I stand here, about to die, all I can think about is whether or not Baxter and his henchmen have destroyed anything in my labs. I have too many important experiments down there. The new nanotech weapon. The promising cold fusion project. Not to mention, of course, the temporal accelerator. It would be such a shame and a waste to lose the temporal accelerator.

While I'm pondering this, the lead henchman—a large man whose bald, sweaty pate gleams under the fluorescent lights—steps forward. But he barely glances at me. He only has eyes for April. "Where is it?" he barks at her.

Almost involuntarily her eyes flutter down to her bag. Just for a moment, but the damage is done. The henchman stares at the bag with hungry eyes. Then he takes a step forward, raising his gun.

April involuntarily leans back, eyes wide with fear.

Just as involuntarily, a memory of Leonardo flashes through my mind. Of Leonardo chained and frail and utterly broken.

_No._

With a lightning-fast roundhouse kick, I disarm the head henchman and, on the follow-through, grab April around the waist. I throw myself to the floor, pulling her down with me, a second before a flurry of bullets rip into the elevator doors just above our heads. Quickly I dip into my bag and throw a smoke bomb. As the corridor fills with opaque smoke and coughing and erratic gunfire, I place my good hand on the back of April's head, keeping her low to the ground. Then, together, we begin crawling away.

Every move forward sends a throbbing ache through my arm, and I find myself grinding my teeth. She just _had_ to shoot me. Her and her stupid altruism …

Though I feel a little proud about the round-house kick—if Mikey was still alive, he'd be impressed that I can still move that fast—I am rapidly realizing that it was an aberration. I'm simply not as young as I used to be. I'm not as limber, not as strong, not as fast. Reflecting upon this cheerful thought, I come to a decision. We can't keep running and hiding. We're simply too outmatched, and our supply of dumb luck is due to run out any moment now. The time has come to make a stand.

Rifling through my bag again, I search desperately for the one thing that can even up the odds. Choking, I close my eyes against the sting of the smoke. My fingers brush against glass, cool to the touch. Even though I feel like I'm about to cough up a lung, I still can't help but smile in triumph.

I take out the vial. Then the syringe. Now temporarily blind, I go by touch alone, filling the syringe to what I can only guess is the correct level. From far away I hear a voice; it sounds like April calling my name, but I'm not sure.

I jab the needle into my remaining good arm—God _damn_ her—and empty the syringe. There's no turning back now.

"April!" My voice is hoarse and low from all the smoke. "Get ready!"

Adrenaline roars through my muscles, and the virus bubbles in my veins. As my hands begin to shake, I can't keep a grip on my gun and drop it. My gunshot wound throbs a little, then just as the throbbing starts turning truly painful, the pain fades away.

Slow. My mind is slowing down, like a waterwheel suddenly taken out of the river. Panic rises within my breast. So hard … to think … At the same time, my arm hurts less. Thank goodness. I open my eyes. I can see again. I feel blood rush through my muscles, feel muscles … get stronger. Get big—bigger. Get bigger. Very big.

No, it's too soon! Must maintain control. But my brain, so very slow. And the virus … is getting … so strong.

Smoke gone. Men scared. Drop guns, run away. I scare. I smile.

Look down. She scared too. Good. Raise paw—kill. _Kill._ No! No kill. Why no kill? Must kill! Scared. She scared, me scared. Why no kill? No kill, she …

Family.

No kill. Please, no scared. Pick up her. Run. Run very fast. Forget … go where? Forgetting … Safe place. Must go. Safe place, now. She scream. Still scared. Smell fear. Fear strong. But no kill. No kill family.

Put down, close door. Hide. Hide good. I proud. Hide good. Turn around—men back. I growl. Smell fear. On men now. Men afraid.

Good.

Men have lights. Lights _hurt_! Loud lights. Growl. Grab at lights. Hands hurt. Look down. Red. Everywhere red. Bite man. Bite more man. Still lights … Wet. Red. Fall down, eyes close. No lights. Still loud. Go 'way, loud.

Hurts. Hurts … dark now … _hurts_ … family … red … wet …

April.

---

Author's Notes: Thanks as always for reading. For those keeping track, there's one more chapter after this, then the epilogue.


	7. Chapter 6: April

**Chapter 6**

Awaking suddenly, drenched in stale sweat, I blink and stare. In front of me is a woman, scowling at me as though I'm an unpleasant odor. Which, considering the stale sweat, I probably am. She is young, with sharp angular features, dark hair, and dark eyes. I can see a katana hilt peeking over her shoulder, as well. As she grabs me by the wrists and yanks me to my feet, I try to remember where I've seen her before. Because I _have_ seen her before. After I'm standing, she picks up my bag and, without ceremony or comment, and shoves it into my arms.

And then it all clicks into place—Don's secretary. She's the woman who let me into his office when I came to … All of a sudden my thoughts slam to a halt. Donatello! The last time I was conscious, I was with Don. I was in the Saki building. Turning my head from side to side, clearing the cobwebs and getting a better look at my surroundings, I realize that I'm still in the Saki building. Yes. Though I'm still a bit disoriented, I'm beginning to remember.

Finally I look at the young woman, who is still glaring. Ignoring the blatant ill will, I ask her, "Where's Don?"

"Mr. Hamato is dead," she replies and turns away. She only makes it half a dozen steps before I'm on top of her, slamming her against the nearest wall. But even as I press my forearm into the soft flesh of her throat, she never loses her scowl.

"Where," I begin again, my voice dangerously low, "is Donatello?"

"Mr. Hamato is dead." She raises an eyebrow, as if to say how unimpressed she is with me. "As I already told you, Ms. O'Neil."

I let her go. Taking in a deep breath, I lean against the wall and study the hallway we're in. The walls are Swiss cheese, peppered with holes from innumerable bullets and laser blasts, and dried blood stains all kinds of surfaces. I can't believe how much blood there is. Then, as I notice the hideaway that the woman has just pulled me from, I feel a faint smile cross my lips. Genius. It is a large pedestal, on which sits a Japanese vase which appears rather old. Though the pedestal looks like stone, the still-open door reveals it to be hollow inside.

Way to go, Donny. And to think of it when he was—oh, God. I remember now. I _remember_. Ignoring the sudden sting at the back of my eyes, I murmur, "How did you know where to find me?"

"I know many things. I was Mr. Hamato's assistant for a long time." Her tone softens, just a little. "Among other things, I know that he would have wanted to protect you."

I don't have anything to say to that. So I merely nod and keep silent.

She sighs. "Come, we must leave. The men are momentarily gone, but they will return for you before long."

While following her through the labyrinthine hallways of the Saki Industries building—or, rather, what remains of the Saki building—I think quietly of last night. Stockman. Donatello. Guns.

Too many guns.

The bio-weapon. It had been Bishop's outbreak virus. Or a version of it, anyways. At first I hadn't been able to see what was going on, from all the smoke. But I'd definitely been able to hear his growl. After I finally could force my eyes back open, the first thing I had seen was Don towering over me in that terrible, all-too-familiar form. Gameradon, we'd called him so many years ago. Incredibly tall, his head brushed the vaulted ceiling, and his red eyes glowed through the remaining smoke.

He took out a few gunmen, while the rest wisely chose to flee. Then he looked down at me. Immediately I froze. He looked unmistakably and disturbingly _hungry_. He took a step towards me, and I remember having thought that I'd rather die by gunfire than by devouring. But just as he opened his jaws, he blinked and seemed confused. After shaking his head, like a wet dog shaking himself dry, he looked back down at me with an entirely different expression.

Red though they were, his eyes were also soft, searching, even worried. The last time I had seen eyes like those was when a twenty-year-old mutant turtle was bursting with excitement to show me his blueprints for a portable holographic projector.

He must have tweaked the virus' RNA. So that he could mutate but retain mental control. At the time I'd only felt relief that I wasn't about to be eaten but now I feel a sudden surge of admiration. Donny had learned how to tame the beast. Amazing.

Before I know it, we're on the roof, and my new companion is leading me to the Saki company helicopter. She climbs in and thrusts out her hand. For a moment I stare numbly at the surprisingly small hand, lost in my own thoughts, until I realize she is offering me assistance.

Once we're settled inside, I face her. I'm not sure I trust this katana-toting secretary, but I don't have a better plan at the moment. And damn, do I hate not having a plan. The helicopter takes off, and for a while we listen to the furious roar of the propeller. Absentmindedly I wonder where I'm now being taken.

The woman clears her throat, and my attention focuses again. "My name is Hiroko," she offers, with a slight smile and nod in my direction.

"I'm April." Though I imagine she remembers very well who I am. Smiling in return, I add, "I'm a friend of Don's from a long time ago."

She looks out the window. "Yes, I know. You were friends with all his brothers."

A million questions immediately flood my mind. How does she know about Don's brothers? Does she know about Don himself? How much? But none of these are things I can ask. Besides, all the questions are moot, anyways.

So instead I ask something relevant: "Will Saki Industries go to you, then?"

"Partly." She turns back to me. "As his assistant, I am quite familiar with Mr. Hamato's last will and testament. He left half of his shares of the company to me."

Trying to figure out who might be getting the other half, I come up blank. So I ask.

"You," is Hiroko's succinct reply. She sounds faintly amused.

Donny, Donny, Donny. Full of surprises, even after death. Oh, God … dead. Dead? Is he really? I feel a sudden pressure in my chest and find it hard to breathe. Could _the_ Don Hamato really be dead? It had sure sounded like it. Before passing out from pain and sheer exhaustion, I had heard the laser blasts. Had heard his anguished howls. And I had heard both the lasers and the howls finally come to an end, leaving in their place only deafening silence. My poor, poor Donatello.

Despite everything he did, I never stopped hoping. And I never stopped loving.

Then again, this isn't the first time Don has been dead. Perhaps—just perhaps—it won't be the last. Suddenly realizing that I never did see Don's body in the hallways, I make a mental note to later interrogate Hiroko on just _how_ she knows her employer is dead.

She, meanwhile, is staring out the window again, and I follow her gaze. Her eyes are locked on the Saki building, which looks dollhouse-sized from how far below us it is. Sensing my gaze in the way only ninjas can, she turns to me and says, "We will have to rebuild. There is a lot of damage inside, but I think the underlying structure of the building remains sound."

"We?" I repeat, arching an eyebrow.

"Yes, April. _We._" Her voice is polished steel—not dissimilar to the katana she carries or, for that matter, to the voice of another katana-wielder I used to know.

There's a lot I can do with half of a large international tech company. I relax into the plush seat behind me. Pulling my bag into my lap, I open it and take a look inside. The computer disc is still exactly where I put it. I smile. Yes, there's quite a lot I can do now. Zipping the bag closed again, I study my new business partner.

"Hiroko, may we make a small detour?"

She studies me in return. "Where would you like to go?"

"The District of Columbia." I pat the bag sitting in my lap. "For our first business meeting, I was thinking we could have a chat with President Bishop."

---

Author's Notes: I had some big hesitations with this chapter, as I've never really done an OC before. But this chapter seemed to require someone since I, y'know, killed off Don. (Or did I? Bwa ha ha ha. I'm not telling, and neither is Hiroko.) There's still the epilogue to go, wherein some of the mysteries of Don Hamato, Leonardo, Karai, and even Hiroko shall be revealed.

Minor revision 3/28: Thanks to Reinbeuchaser for the "his/her" catch!


	8. Part II: Resurrection

_**Part II: Resurrection**_

"_I thought I saw a ghost."_

—_Hamato Raphael, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles II: The Secret of the Ooze_

**Prologue**

You think you know Hamato Donatello. You think you can judge him. Perhaps you even think you have the right to judge him.

But you know _nothing_.

Let me tell you a story. It is a story that began over fifteen years ago … but I will tell you the part that began five years ago, that began with an assassination attempt.

---

"Father?"

"Yes, Hiroko?" But his eyes stay fixed on the old-fashioned gun that sits on the corner of his desk.

Uncertain, I pause in the doorway of his office. I want to ask a question. A question that I know is none of my concern. But, regardless, I forge ahead. "Who was that red-haired woman?"

His eyes jerk up. I can see the surprise in their dark depths, and I feel suddenly justified in my asking.

"She's no one," he says, a careless smile accompanying his words. "A potential investor."

He is lying. I have always been able to tell when Father lies. But this is not something I can admit aloud, so instead I remain respectfully silent, waiting for him to speak next. Though we both know that he's fully aware of my presence, he ignores me and returns to staring at the gun.

Unbidden, unwanted, curiosity flames within me. The gun _means_ something. But what?

"Have you fed the prisoner today?" he asks suddenly, reaching towards the gun. He runs his fingertips along the barrel.

I flinch in embarrassment. "No, Father. Not yet."

He nods, slowly. "Then let's visit her together, Hiroko." Taking up the gun, he opens a drawer in his desk and tucks the weapon inside. "I would like to have a word with her."

Again curiosity claws at the inside of my mind, and my tongue burns with the desire to question my father. He almost never goes to see the prisoner personally. For the most part, the care and feeding of the prisoner falls to me. As I watch him unlock the secret passageway, I decide that this strange turn of events must have something to do with the red-haired woman. Or perhaps the gun, or even both.

In silence we crawl through the tunnels until we reach the one exit that is locked. My father pauses here and, after fiddling with his watch a moment, he reveals his true form. I bite back my surprise—I didn't know that he ever appears before the prisoner like this. Entering the access code and unlocking the exit, he crawls through, and I quickly follow.

As always, she is chained to the far wall. She doesn't look up, but I don't expect that of her. Not once has she ever looked at me or acknowledged my presence. She is like an Egyptian mummy. Pale with sunken eyes and brittle gray hair, she neither speaks nor moves. Though I wouldn't dream of confessing it to Father, this woman scares me a little.

My father, meanwhile, gently clears his throat to announce his presence. "Good afternoon."

Faster than I thought possible, the woman's head snaps up. Her faded eyes turn very bright, and her mouth opens and closes rapidly, like a fish's. Finally she finds her voice, long unused, and rasps out, "_You._"

"Yes, me. Here in the living-but-charred flesh." He walks over to her and kneels, so that he is at eye level with the prisoner. "I have a bargain I'd like to propose."

"You … "

He sighs. "Yes, we've already established who I am."

"You killed Leonardo."

Uncle Leo? Surely the woman lies. But as I gaze upon her, feeling the sudden heat of her wrath, I do not feel quite so certain. There are so many things I do not know about my father, about his past … Reeling, I turn away from the woman and look instead to my father.

He leans forward, so that he is almost beak to nose with this woman who has so casually accused him of fratricide. "Of course I didn't kill Leo," he explains in a voice made quiet with anger. "I could never, ever have hurt Leo."

"I saw the dagger."

"He killed himself." Father's voice is now no more than a strangled whisper. "And it was you yourself who brought him to that."

The prisoner's eyes begin to cloud over once again. She doubts. I can see it in her face. Just a little, but she doubts. Licking her dry, cracked lips, she offers, "But the dagger?"

"Was mine. I left it with him so he could protect himself. So he could protect himself from _you_." He closes his eyes. "After letting him out of his shackles, I went to find a good escape route for us. When I came back, Leo had … he had already … " With a sudden cry, he slams a large fist against the wall, right next to the woman's head.

She doesn't even flinch. While I have suspected before that she is ninja, now I know. She must be ninja. My mind races with this new knowledge. She is _ninja_. Respect now tinges the fear I still bear towards her. A fellow ninja.

When my father once again opens his eyes, he looks much calmer. He slowly rises and, from his full height, looks down on the woman. "As I mentioned," he says, as though there had been no pause, as though he hadn't just punched a stone wall, "I have a proposition for you. I am offering you your freedom."

She shakes her head in response. "My father is dead. Leonardo is dead. There is no freedom."

Father chuckles—a dusty, hollow sound, like the turning of pages in an ancient book. "Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose." At this the woman looks up, puzzled, and he further explains, "It's a lyric from a mid-twentieth century folk song. I thought it apropos."

Ignoring the explanation, she merely frowns. "What must I give you for my freedom?" she inquires at last.

"Only what you've already been giving me for all these years—your silence."

"I do not understand."

"Then allow me to clarify." He begins pacing, making quick, tight loops around the small cell. "I'll let you go. I'll have the helicopter take you anywhere in the world, and I'll have a tidy sum of money transferred to the bank account of your choosing. In return—" Here he whirls around to face her. "—you will live under an assumed name and reveal your true identity to no one. You will make no attempt to take my company. And you will never set a single foot in New York City ever again."

She mulls this over, wearing a carefully neutral expression. "Why? Why would you give so much for so little?" She shakes her head in an almost disapproving way. "It is unwise to let me go. You should either keep me here or kill me."

"I should have killed you years ago, actually." Sighing, my father runs a tired hand over his scarred face. "But I didn't kill you. And the past finally caught up with me today, I'm afraid. The past always does, doesn't it?"

She says nothing.

"At any rate, that's my offer. Take it or leave it. The choice is entirely yours."

Still frowning, she gives a curt nod. "I accept your offer, Donatello."

"Very good." Father gestures to me. "Hiroko will see to your arrangements." That settled, he heads towards the exit. Once there he turns to add, "I would suggest a visit to a hospital would be a good first step on the itinerary. Preferably a foreign one, where our guest won't be readily recognized."

"Yes, Father," I reply just as the latch closes behind him.

"Father?" The woman stares at me for several long moments. Then, slowly, she smiles. "You look exactly like him."

Though I know I am being mocked, I ignore it and make my way over to the wall. I kneel and begin undoing the prisoner's restraints. It is somewhat unsettling to have the woman speak to me, for I am far more accustomed to her silence. But, given the sudden change in our relationship from that of warden and prisoner to guardian and ward, I feel that I should not be rude. "My name is Hiroko," I tell her as I wrap an arm around her too-slender waist. "I am the daughter of Hamato Donatello."

"I am Karai, daughter of Oroku Saki." She sighs. "Or, at the least, I used to be."

"Karai? But Karai is—you're supposed to be dead." 

Slowly, gently, we begin the arduous task of standing up. 

While doing so, the woman smirks and glances towards the exit through which Father has just disappeared. "Perhaps," Karai concedes, "but so is _he_."

---

He explained, once, that he did not believe in happy endings. He did not believe in mercy. Nor did he believe in redemption. "My daughter," he told me, "I believe in one thing. I believe in vengeance."

But, as I have mentioned, I have always known when my father was lying.

The story is not over, of course. It has just begun.

---

Author's Notes: Revised 4/7. The saga continues!


	9. Chapter 7: April

**Chapter 7**

In silence we wait. I have always been a fairly patient person, but even so, my patience cannot rival that of my ninja companion. While for some time I've been bored and tapping my feet nervously, Hiroko remains sitting perfectly still and ram-rod straight. On her face hangs a serene expression. At the moment, she reminds me quite a bit of Master Splinter, and I can't help but smile a little.

Perhaps feeling my gaze, she turns and raises an inquisitive eyebrow.

"I feel exposed," I tell her quietly. "I don't like all this waiting."

"The President is a very busy man. We are lucky that he could see us as soon as this."

I grit my teeth, reflecting that a little bit of Zen master goes a long way. "I know, Hiroko, but I still don't like it."

"I understand." She sighs. "I do not like it either."

We both lapse into silence again, and I take the opportunity to glance around nervously at our surroundings. We're in an outer office at the White House, and the lights are turned rather low, casting long dark shadows across the immaculate rug in the center of the room. A good number of staffers seem to recognize Hiroko and, as a few trickle in and out of the office, they give her smiles of recognition.

Thinking for a few moments, I realize part of what has me so uneasy. Careful to keep my tone casual, calm, and neutral, I ask, "Just how were you able to arrange this meeting?"

"Oh, I simply told the President's secretary that this meeting is to be with Mr. Hamato. Mr. Hamato was a large contributor to the President's last election campaign, so it is in President Bishop's best interests to be—" The corners of her mouth twitch as she ponders over the correct word. "—_accommodating_."

Wait a minute … "Wait a minute. Don actually gave money to Bishop's campaign?"

"Yes, as well as the campaigns of every other presidential candidate." She glances over at me. "I believe the exact phrase Mr. Hamato used was 'hedging my bets.'"

In response, I grin. Trust Don to—oh, Don. Donny. My chest tightens in an unpleasant way. "Hiroko," I begin again, voice softer than before, "you said that Donatello's dead."

Her voice is just as soft as she replies, "Yes."

"How do you know? Did you find his … his body?"

She glances over with an insulted look on her face. "The blood. There was far too much blood for even a highly-trained warrior like Mr. Hamato to survive."

"But a lot of the blood could have been from the government agents."

Frowning severely at me, Hiroko shakes her head. "April, I am not a fool. I _checked_ the blood. It was reptilian. All of it."

So she knows. She knows about Donatello. I turn this new information over in my mind, considering, wondering what else she's been keeping to herself. I wish I could trust her. Hell, I wish I could trust anyone at this point.

"His body was gone by the time I arrived," she continues, a hint of hesitation in her voice. "I assume that he was taken by the government agents for dissection."

I can't entirely hide a shiver. Dear God, don't let that be true. Please, not that. Then something occurs to me. Something that _I_ know but she doesn't. "Are you familiar with an experimental bio-weapon that Don was working on?"

Confused, she cocks her head. "The outbreak virus, yes. What about it?"

"Hiroko, he used the virus. On himself. Right before I lost consciousness." I lean forward in my chair, staring into Hiroko's eyes. A tingle works its way up my spine. "That meant he was at least twice as large as usual."

Immediately Hiroko's eyes light up. "Which means that perhaps the amount of blood I found in the hallways—"

"Might not have been fatal," I finish excitedly.

Without thinking I reach forward and lay my hand on her arm. Her eyes widen, just a bit, but it's enough for me to notice. I snatch back my hand. Dammit. That whole trust thing again. She doesn't trust me either.

Then again, why would she?

"Excuse me, ladies."

Simultaneously, Hiroko and I turn towards this new, intruding voice. In the doorway stands a small and nondescript man, who smiles apologetically. For startling us, I suppose, though perhaps it's for his mere existence. I can imagine working in an administration under John Bishop would lead to a lot of placating, apologetic smiles.

"The president is ready to see you now," the man continues, still smiling. And with a little bow of his head, he's gone again, leaving the door open behind him.

Hiroko stands and almost subconsciously squares her shoulders. I follow suit and, after picking a bit of imaginary lint off my blouse, I follow Hiroko into the inner office.

The office is just about everything I might want or expect it to be: plush blue carpet, pure-white walls that seem to extend upwards indefinitely, and presiding over the whole affair, a large oak desk square in the middle. At the desk, Bishop's tall-backed chair is facing away, towards the windows opposite us. To heighten the suspense, I suppose. I fight the urge to roll my eyes.

But then, then I notice the Secret Service agents. They were stationed at both sides of the doors as we entered, and there was nothing terribly odd about that, but now they're right behind us, and for some reason it feels … off. As coldness suddenly seizes me, I take a small step backwards—but too late. Two beefy hands grab my shoulders, and I quickly glance over to Hiroko.

Too late again. She's already limp in the other agent's arms. Unconscious, but breathing.

I glance back up in time to see the desk chair slowly turn around. The single remaining eye of Baxter Stockman gleams menacingly under the fluorescent office lights.

Growling softly, I throw my head backwards with full force. The agent grunts in surprise, and his grip loosens. Just as I wrench one of my shoulders free, I feel a sharp pang in my arm. Then the agent roughly pushes me away, and I stumble a few steps towards the doors, as dizziness and nausea wash over me, before I fall to the floor.

The last thing I see are Stockman's two metal feet. His voice echoes off the high walls as he lets out a low chuckle. "Really, Ms. O'Neil, we simply must stop meeting like this."

_Smug bastard,_ I think just as I go under, with a hazy anger that doesn't really have much of an edge because by now I'm high as a kite.

---

Author's Notes: Jessiy and Reinbeauchaser were both totally right on, of course—no surprise there—so I've been thinking of what I should do. Leave the story as-is, flaws and all? Write another sequel? Take out the epilogue? Continue the story?

I don't like to take out stuff, because it seems sneaky somehow. And I hesitated to write another story in this series, because that feels really self-indulgent for some reason. I never thought I'd write sequels, but never say never, eh? So, anyways, I decided on adding a second part to this story. The former epilogue is now the prologue to Part II, and I think it'll work much better as such. Thanks for the concrit!

Update: Very slight revision 4/17.


	10. Chapter 8: Hiroko

**Chapter 8**

Everything hurts. I do not fear the pain nor do I whimper because of it, but the pain does worry me. Pain means that something is wrong. For the life of me, however, I cannot think of what might be amiss.

So, despite the ache developing at my temple, I force my eyes open. Though the light is very murky, I can still see somewhat. April is lying a few feet away from me, eyes shut, her breath slow and deep. The color gray is all around her—gray stone-tiled floor and gray concrete walls.

"Sir, one of them is awake."

I push myself up onto my elbows and ignore how the sudden movement sends my vision reeling and my head swimming. Gingerly I turn to face the voice. On the other side of black steel bars stands a man with a gun. A government agent, doubtless.

Turning away, I crawl over to April much more slowly than I would have liked and shake her by the shoulder. Her eyelids open just a fraction. "Hmm?"

"Wake up, April," I whisper. "We have visitors."

She blinks sleepily at me, confusion creasing her brow. "Visitors?"

I glance away. April rolls over and manages to scramble to her hands and knees, looking a bit wobbly but mostly stable. Once that's accomplished, she follows my gaze.

"Shit."

I nod. I agree perfectly with her assessment of our current situation.

The armed man steps to the side, allowing NSF Director Stockman to come into full view. I find the man unnerving. Though I have less than twenty years to my life's credit, I have spent many of those years learning how to read people. Reading people—friend and foe alike—is essential to a ninja's wellbeing. But Stockman has no recognizable face, only the one too-bright eye. I cannot read him at all, and that unnerves me quite a bit.

Meanwhile, April pulls herself to her feet, leaning heavily against a nearby stone wall for support. Unlike Stockman, I can read April reasonably well, and at this precise moment she is radiating unease. She stares at our captors.

"Welcome to the District of Columbia," says Stockman with a laugh in his voice. Immediately I grasp why my father has always disliked this man. "I'm sorry President Bishop wasn't available to meet with you, but I'm sure you understand why I couldn't allow that to happen." He turns, and his eye focuses on me. "Surely you didn't think that Donatello was the only one with informants in the administration?"

A _set-up_. I bite the inside of my cheek so hard that, after a moment, I taste blood. A set-up. I should have known better. I should have seen it coming. Father never would have fallen for this.

Beside me, April coughs. I look over to her—she is staring at Stockman, the anger I feel mirrored in her face, without even an attempt to hide it. "And where is Donatello?" she demands in a soft rasp.

Director Stockman approaches our jail cell and reaches a clenched fist through the bars. Slowly he unfolds his hand, revealing a deceptively simple steel wristwatch.

My father's holoprojector.

April glares darkly, speechless with rage, so it is left to me to ask, "Is Mr. Hamato alive?"

"For the moment."

My composure snaps, and I leap from the floor to launch myself at the bars. But I am not quite fast enough. Before I can get close enough to snap the robotic arm clean off this hateful man's body, Stockman has fallen back, chuckling, safe from my reach.

"Don't worry, my child," he soothes, "dear Donatello is safe and sound right at home. In fact, he hasn't even left the Saki building."

I gasp. That … that is impossible.

"And now that you two are otherwise occupied, I'm free to return to New York to complete my business there."

Seemingly satisfied, Stockman turns his back to us and walks purposefully towards the door opposite our cage. The man with the gun smirks briefly in my direction before following. I look again to April, but she is staring down at the floor.

"Oh, and Ms. O'Neil?" Stockman says with false casualness, opening the door. The gunman disappears through the doorway, leaving only the three of us. "No need to return those stolen files to me. I've no need of them anymore. The project's complete." He glances over his shoulder, and the white of his eye is the only thing fully visible in the dim light. "In less than twelve hours, the entire East Coast will be a radioactive wasteland."

Then the door closes, and I am alone with April. She is still staring at the dirty floor of our cell, a blank expression dulling her facial features, her shoulders sagging. She suddenly looks very old. But when she catches me looking at her, she straightens up.

There is fire in her eyes as she says, "First things first. We have to get out of here."

I nod my agreement. The tension in my muscles, in my bones, loosens a bit. April hasn't given up yet. It is a small achievement, but it is a start. As I intently study the bars of our cell, I marvel as how low-tech the jail cell appears. "It seems to be a simple pin tumbler system," I murmur to her.

She steps towards the cell door. "Hmm. I wonder if it's hooked up to an alarm system."

"Perhaps. But I see no electronics. Nor any casing for wires to run." Frustrated, I shake my head. "But that cannot be. Director Stockman wouldn't leave us in such insecure confinement."

"I wouldn't bet on that, actually," April replies, eyes narrow in thought as she runs a hand experimentally along the cell bars. "You don't know Stockman. He's cocky. Too cocky." She sighs almost silently. "Also, even if we get out of here, he's probably banking on the assumption that we won't be able to get back to New York in time to stop him."

That is actually not an unjustifiable assumption. Our helicopter has certainly been impounded by now. It would be difficult to borrow or steal transportation swift enough to get us to the city. Difficult—but not impossible. Especially not for the heirs to Saki Industries.

"April."

"Mmm-hmm?" She is crouched beside the door, squinting into the keyhole of the lock.

"If you'll take care of freeing us, I can take care of our transportation needs."

She turns to greet me with raised eyebrow. "Oh?"

"I know of someone who owes me a favor." I allow myself a small grin. "Someone who has possession of a helicopter very much like the one we ourselves had."

April's eyebrow does not move from its position near her hairline. Her eyes cloud over, and I can tell she is trying to decide whether or not to trust me. Finally she holds out her hand, palm facing up.

"Give me your hairpins," she commands.

Startled, I comply without question. She puts a few in her mouth—for safe keeping, I suppose—and begins threading the others into the lock. "Old trick of the trade," she mumbles, teeth still holding onto the pins. "Learned it from one of the best. Guy could open a lock in two seconds flat with nothing but the point of a sai."

My mouth goes dry. Taking a quick breath to calm myself, I ask, "What was his name?"

"Raphael. One of Don's brothers." She takes a pin from her mouth and jams it into the lock. "Though I guess you probably already knew that, huh?"

Raphael. Uncle Raph. I falter, just for a moment, until April lets out a sudden whoop. A second later, the door to our cell swings open. April stands up and grins at me, brushing her hands on her pants. "Leave it to a bunch of men to forget to confiscate hairpins from—"

She is cut off by a loud, clanging alarm. We glance at one another. "On the bright side," I tell her, not entirely able to hide a grin of my own, "now we know whether the door was wired to an alarm."

"I'm thrilled." She runs to the door that leads to what, I hypothesize, must be a hallway. She gives the knob a try before exclaiming, "Damn, it's locked. And it's not a pin tumbler, so it'll take me a few minutes to get this open"

Unfortunately, we don't have a few minutes. Fortunately, I already have an alternate plan. I point towards the ceiling. "Look. Ventilation shafts."

"Oh, _that's_ gonna be fun."

Ignoring the sarcasm, I take a running jump and, after a somersault off the wall, grab onto some overhead pipes. One swift kick is all it takes to knock in the grated cover to the ventilation shaft. Then I let go of the pipes and drop back down to the floor.

I motion April over, while lacing my fingers together, and instantly she understands. Without a word she accepts the boost up, grabbing onto the lower ledge of the shaft before pulling herself inside. I repeat my earlier maneuvers to get back up to the pipes, then I swing myself over to the shaft. Once I'm inside, April begins crawling, and I follow her.

Then she suddenly comes to a halt. "The grate," she says, as much to herself as to me.

Ah. Reversing course, I pick up the grate and carefully replace it over the opening of the ventilation shaft. Right on cue, as soon as the grate is correctly positioned, the door bursts open down below and three armed men spill into the room. They look around, puzzled.

There is no time to lose. It will not take the men very long to realize where we are. Up ahead, April has already crawled onward. I hasten to catch up while remaining absolutely silent. Time is of the essence for more reasons than one, however.

The bio-weapon that Father was working on had a built-in failsafe. We designed it so that the effects would only last a few hours at most, and it has been many hours since April and I have left New York. Even if under that secondary mutation, he would be weak from the blood loss … but if he has reverted back to his normal state …

I must find him. I _will_ find him. I am ninja. I am Hamato Donatello's daughter. And I am going to save my father and stop this madman—no matter what.

---

Author's Notes: The owner of the helicopter shall be introduced next chapter, as well as one of my favorite couplings. Thanks for reading and reviewing!


	11. Chapter 9: April

**Chapter 9**

As a wise man once said, all things must pass. And, in our particular case, the corollary would be: all ventilation shafts must eventually lead outside. I give the shaft cover a few solid kicks, and it finally gives. Glancing down, I notice that it's about a fifteen foot drop from the shaft opening to the ground below. Not ideal, but not bad.

I slide out of the shaft head first, leaning forward, flipping over a bit mid-drop, and I manage to land flat on my back, so that the impact is spread over as large an area as possible. Even so, the breath's knocked right out of my lungs. A moment later Hiroko lands right next to me, executing a flawless front-roll to end up standing, erect and nearly unruffled.

From my position on the ground, I glare up at her. I'd forgotten how annoying ninjas could be.

Hiroko offers me a hand, which I accept. After we're both on our feet, she reaches up and removes a small black pearl earring from her left ear. She fiddles with its backing for a moment and seems pleased when the pearl begins pulsing red. The pulsating light only lasts a few seconds, however. Once it stops, she puts the earring back in.

When she glances up, she catches me staring at her. "It's a GPS-based homing beacon," she explains, "so our transport will be able to locate us. It will be at least three hours before they arrive, however."

Distractedly I nod. Though that's one less thing to worry about, we still need an escape plan. This alleyway won't stay safe for much longer.

"You there! Freeze!"

Well. Damn.

We run.

As gunshots ring out—far too loud, far too close—we duck around the building's corner and keep on sprinting down the alleyway. Unsurprisingly, Hiroko is a few steps in front of me and, left without a choice, I follow where she leads. She veers to the left, heading down a narrow side alley. Then after another left, she cuts hard to the right, leaping nimbly over a low wrought-iron gate.

Behind us I can hear the guard, farther away than before but still hot in pursuit, still shouting at us to stop.

Hiroko dodges around another corner and, as I follow 'round the bend, I almost crash right into her.

"The hell?"

She's standing perfectly still, breathing hard from exertion. "Need. A place." She swallows. "To hide."

Nodding, I glance around us. There isn't much for options, unfortunately, but beggars can't be choosers. Then I see it. _There_. Not ideal—but, then again, none of this is. It'll do.

"C'mon," I snap, grabbing Hiroko by the arm and dragging her after me. We dive in between two nearby dumpsters. Keeping low to the pavement, tucked back into the protective embrace of shadows, we watch and we wait.

The security guard staggers to a dead halt, not twenty feet away, when he rounds the corner.

I can see him from between the dumpsters, but I don't think he can see us. Not quite yet. Slowly lifting his gun, the guard yells for us to come out with our hands up and, despite the seriousness of the current predicament, I have to bite back a chuckle. That's so cliché. This is ridiculous.

All of this is ridiculous. Stockman's doomsday device. Donatello's corporate career. Me, hiding behind a freakin' dumpster. Absolutely ridiculous and, yet, here I am. Way to go, O'Neil. Way to go.

Beside me Hiroko crouches down, her body positively humming with held-back power, and after throwing a wary glance my way, she prepares to lunge. The guard, meanwhile, takes a step in our direction. Then another. I still can't tell whether he's spotted us.

Another step. The guard's close now. He's squinting at the dumpsters thoughtfully, and goddammit, he's close enough that I can _tell_ he's squinting. Just as he begins to cock his gun, there's a flash through the air—the flash of steel, my mind registers, almost automatically—and the guard drops to his knees. As the gun slips harmlessly from his grip, he slumps to the ground.

Standing behind his now lifeless body is an old woman. In her right hand she holds a bloodied katana.

The woman is all short gray hair, and thin wiry frame, and hardened eyes glittering huge in a wrinkled face. Faintly she smiles. "I apologize, Hiroko, for not arriving sooner. I was regrettably detained in traffic."

I gasp. It's _her_. Though she looks much older and very different, her voice hasn't changed one bit. Cautiously Hiroko stands and, after a moment's hesitation, steps out from the shadows. But I don't follow after. My arms and legs feel numb, and I don't know whether it's from the sudden loss of adrenaline or from the shock of seeing a dead woman. Or both, perhaps.

Finally, jumping up before I lose my nerve, I too venture from the shadows into the light. "You look good, Karai," I hear myself say, in an inexplicably calm voice. "I mean, good for a woman who's been dead for fifteen years."

Karai frowns briefly in my direction before addressing Hiroko. "I did not realize you would be bringing … company."

I glare. If she hadn't just saved my life, I would kill her where she stands—or, more likely, die trying.

Glancing back at me, seeming a bit nervous, Hiroko clears her throat. "We are very short on time, I'm afraid. We must leave. I will explain on the way."

Karai tilts her head, considering, then nods. Kneeling, she lovingly wipes the blood from her blade on the guard's uniform. Then she sheathes the sword and points towards the end of the alley, where there's a parked limo, rear door open wide and invitingly.

As soon as we're safely nestled in the limo's backseat, Karai instructs our driver to head for National Airport. Only then does Hiroko begin the story—our story. I just let her talk. It's too much. All I can do is sit back against the plush limo seats. Resting my head against the window, I sit and I think.

Hiroko, by the time we reach the airport, has filled Karai in on most of what's happened over the course of the last two days. The entire car ride Karai has sat attentively. Silently. When the driver opens the door for us, no one moves an inch.

At last Karai breaks the wordless stand-off. "I will accompany you to New York."

"No way, Karai." My head snaps up. "You killed them. Killed my _family_. You aren't going anywhere."

She turns and regards me with solemn eyes. "I was merely repaying the favor," she replies, without a trace of humor or irony. "But that is neither here nor there, Ms. O'Neil. I know the Saki building very well. My services will prove valuable."

I set my jaw. Hiroko knows the building, too, and I'm not exactly a stranger myself. Karai is wrong. Dead wrong. We need Karai helping us like I need a shuriken through my brain. But just as I'm about to argue the point further, I feel fingers brush against my arm, and I shift my glance over.

"What Karai says is true." Hiroko looks pleadingly into my eyes. She drops her voice to a soft purr. "April. April, please."

Biting my lip, I feel myself relent and my shoulders relax. I don't trust Karai. But I do trust Hiroko. There's something in her eyes, I think, something indefinable that makes me trust her. I give Hiroko a short nod.

We exit the limo, and as soon as we do, I see that we've driven directly onto the runway. Less than twenty yards away is a black helicopter waiting for us. Its blades are already whirring, beating angrily against the orange dusk. Hiroko and I trail after Karai as she leads the way to the 'copter.

As the helicopter takes off, Karai studies me with frank skepticism while Hiroko looks uneasily out the window. I sigh involuntarily. Then, after we've reached a safe altitude, Karai says something to our pilot—I can't hear what she says, exactly, over the thunder of the 'copter—but apparently the pilot hears, and he turns around. He's a man with a goatee and red hair just beginning to gray at the temples. Unlike with Karai, I recognize the man instantly.

"I'll be damned." Despite myself, I feel a smile stretch across my face. "Dr. Chaplin."

He returns my smile with one of his own, wide and breezy and still youthful. "April O'Neil! Long time, no see. Sorry it took us a while to get to you."

Hiroko raises an eyebrow. "I was actually expecting you to take much longer," she says, her eyes sparkling with quiet laughter. "I thought you lived in Nebraska?"

Suddenly I realize why I trust those eyes so much. They are the exact same shade of chocolate brown as Donatello's

Chaplin's smile, impossibly, grows even wider. "Oh, we still do live in Nebraska. We're just staying in D.C. for the weekend, because there's this big technology conference at Georgetown—"

I frown and hold up a hand. "Hold on a second, here. Nebraska? _That_ Nebraska?"

"It is a long story." Karai glances at Chaplin, with just a hint of trepidation in her voice. "A long, boring, _completely unnecessary_ story." 

"Oh, it's not that long a story." Chaplin swivels back around, presumably so as to better pilot the helicopter, while continuing cheerfully, "I've lived there for a long time now, ever since I was invited to do research and teach biochemistry at the University of Nebraska. That's where I was when Mistress Karai tracked me down about five years ago."

Meanwhile, Karai sighs. "I've told him, time and again, that no one wants to hear this story." She shakes her head ruefully. "Not to mention that I'm no longer a mistress of anything …"

But Chaplin remains undeterred. "Karai has stayed in Nebraska ever since. Because we're in love."

Hiroko and I both gape at the former leader of the Foot clan, and in return she favors us with a scowl. "I have stayed in Nebraska," she retorts, "because I have grown fond of American football. It is a sport worthy of a ninja."

"The Cornhuskers _have_ been having a good season," admits Chaplin good-naturedly.

I turn to Hiroko just as she turns to me. We blink at each other, in perfect silence, for several long moments. And then we do the only thing we can logically do at this point. We burst out laughing.

---

Author's Notes: It's been forever since I updated this, but the story is not forgotten, I promise. Real life—in the form of final exams, etc.—intervened, however. But the rest of the story has already been outlined, and this _will_ be finished up sooner or later, hopefully sooner.

And in case you're wondering, "Um, why Nebraska, DB?" … it's purely because (as a former Nebraskan myself) I thought it would be amusing for a semi-retired ninja and mad scientist to live there. I freely admit this concept is probably only funny to me, but I'm okay with that. Sometimes you gotta write for yourself, and darn it, I'm making Karai live in Nebraska. Go, Huskers. Hee.


	12. Chapter 10: Hiroko

**Chapter 10**

Long ago, in a context now forgotten, casually my father mentioned that, over the years, Uncle Leo became very adept at breaking into the Saki Industries building.

Right now, I find myself hoping it is a family trait.

Karai and I wait on the building rooftop, armed only with a Geiger counter and a katana each. On the opposite side of the roof, hunched over a laptop and working to take out the Saki security grid, are Dr. Chaplin and April, equipped with guns and a second Geiger counter. As soon as they give the word, then we move inside. It should not take long. Though I had suggested that I stay with them to help crack security—something I am far more qualified to do than Chaplin, who is decades out of touch with Saki's systems—April had insisted I go with Karai instead.

To keep watch. To keep _guard_.

Perspective is fascinating. When I think of the woman beside me, I cannot help but see the mysterious and defeated captive imprisoned for so long in my father's hidden cell. Yet I know when April looks at her, she can only see the murderer who took away her friends, the uncles I have never known. I wonder if it is because I never met those she killed that I do not hate Karai as my father and April so obviously do.

Glancing over at my new associate, I catch her regarding me with a frankly inquisitive expression. She looks so peculiar that I nearly laugh—like the rest of us, she is clad in a radiation suit, colored a bright orange that is anathema to anyone trained to embrace the shadows. Never breaking eye contact, even though she is fiddling with her headset in annoyance, she asks, "Do you regret any of it, Hiroko?"

"I might very well ask you the same thing."

Thoughtfully she frowns. "I regret that we are both without our fathers."

I accept her conclusion with a small nod. There is nothing more to say—and even had there been, we would leave it unsaid. We are ninja. We did what we had to do, and regardless, it cannot now be undone. Instead of further discussion, we slide noiselessly across the rooftop, ducking under security cameras, flipping over hidden laser beams. The bulky radiation suits only hinder us slightly, and it takes mere seconds to reach our goal: the main ventilation shaft. Once there, we wait to receive the go-ahead.

Seconds turn to minutes. Glowering, Karai fidgets with the headset.

"We have a problem." April's voice, sudden and unexpected, echoes loudly in my ears.

Karai's eyes narrow dangerously, and she turns to glare in April's direction. "_What_ problem?"

"Dr. Stockman's good," Chaplin says by way of reply, the admiration in his voice unmistakable. "He's managed to completely change up Saki Industries' computer systems. We can't find overrides for his new security encryptions."

"I'm too old for this," mutters Karai, shaking her head.

I bite my lip to keep from sighing. I should have known better. Nothing ever goes easily for a Hamato. In my ears I hear the ghost of my father's voice, low in imitation of an uncle I never knew, growling, "Good old Turtle luck, true to form." I find myself sympathizing very much with Uncle Raphael at the present moment.

Thinking it over, I tentatively suggest, "Are there any other computer systems besides the security that you can access?"

Sounding agitated, April snaps back, "Already looking."

Karai and I exchange a look. The older woman smirks, ever so slightly.

"Hmm. Okay, now," says Chaplin. He pauses. "Looks like we can get into the temperature control and fire safety systems."

April chuckles. "How about we set off all the sprinkles? Will that be a good enough distraction?"

"That shall suffice," Karai says, reaching into a pocket. "Inform us when you have done so." From her pocket she pulls out a small tool and looks up at me. "Glass-cutter," she explains succinctly.

I nod. Further clarification is unnecessary. We both know that, without shutting down the security, to venture into the ventilation shafts would be certain death. The many booby traps ensure that. Quite clearly, an alternative entrance is required. I reach for my belt and take the coil of rope that hangs there.

"Are the laboratories still on the east side of the building?" Karai asks impassively.

I shake my head. "No. My father moved them two years ago. They are now in the north wing."

Karai pauses, takes in this new information. Then she motions for us to head to the other side of the roof.

By the time we've securely tied the rope, Chaplin gives us the go-ahead over our headsets. I notice April stand up and remove the rope from her own belt, as Chaplin puts away the laptop. April looks in my direction, locking eyes with me. She nods, and I nod in return. Then I turn away. Quickly, stealthily, Karai and I rappel down the north side of the Saki building. I stop at the floor where the labs are located. Karai takes the glass-cutter and, within seconds that somehow feel like minutes, we're inside.

The laboratory is empty. No one's around, and nothing but gleaming white walls and long black counters greet our entrance. Turning my face upwards towards the overhead sprinklers, I briefly enjoy the feel of the cool water falling on my face. Out in the hallway I can hear shouting, commotion, and the blaring of the fire alarms. I smile, just a little. April and Chaplin have done well. Then I pull out the Geiger counter and begin scanning the large room.

April and I had guessed that Director Stockman would likely keep the nuclear device in one of the Saki labs, and luckily it appears we were correct. As I near the left side of the room, the radiation levels spike on my scanner.

Frowning, I notice a large metal box on a far table. I glance over to Karai.

She motions me towards the table, and I go. Meanwhile, Karai begins a slow circuit of the room, with her sword drawn and at the ready. She is a warrior. I, like my father, am both warrior _and_ scientist. It only makes sense for I to approach the bomb while she checks for guards. And yet I feel unmistakably uneasy, as I stare down at the innocuous-appearing box that can potentially destroy millions of lives and as Karai slowly circles the laboratory like a katana-wielding vulture.

Using meticulous care, I approach the device. My Geiger counter is now clicking quite loudly. I softly place it on the table, beside the box, and reach for the miniature toolkit that hangs on my belt.

A loud, sudden blast causes me to freeze.

Laser-fire.

Karai's head whirls to face the lab doors, but the doors remain closed. "If they harm one hair on Chaplin's head," she mutters darkly, once it's clear no one is coming, "I will finish what my father began." Her knuckles turn white as she tightens the grip on her weapon. "What little is left of Stockman … I will tear to _ribbons_."

Holding back a snicker, musing over the odd and deadly ways that ninja show affection, I turn back to the box. I take a breath to calm my nerves. A steady hand is of paramount importance now.

Gently I slide open the casing panel on the box. Inside lies a tangle of wires, lights, and circuit boards. Fascinating … fascinating and terrifying. I arm myself with a pair of wire-cutters and a mini-flashlight from my toolkit. At first I simply use the tool to carefully pull and prod the wires to one side, then the next, while directing my flashlight's narrow light beam around the box's interior. The further I explore, however, the greater grows my confusion. I have little experience with nuclear devices, quite true, but still there should be—

I swallow a growl. Shaking my head in realization, I click on my headset. "April? I am in Lab Two with Karai. We've found a decoy."

After a moment of static, I hear in reply, "Damn. Chaplin and I are heading for Lab One." A pause. "Why don't you check out Don's office next?"

"Agreed." I click off the headset. Quickly, and a bit crossly, I begin to put away my tools again.

"Hiroko."

I pause when I hear Karai's voice, low but urgent, from across the room.

"Hiroko, I have found him. I have found Donatello."

Though I should be ecstatic at hearing these words, Karai's tone gives me pause. There is reluctance there. A touch of regret. I stand perfectly still, my hands splayed out on the polished black table in front of me, and refuse to turn around. The beating of my heart fills my ears. I feel suddenly dizzy. The last time I felt like this was when I crouched next to an unconscious April O'Neil in a blood-spattered hallway a mere few floors below where I am now, and instantly I recognize the emotion—I am afraid. I am quite afraid.

---

Author's Notes: Two more chapters to go.


	13. Chapter 11: April

**Chapter 11**

"It's over, Dr. Stockman."

Hmm. A little cheesy, but it'll have to do.

Slowly, Baxter Stockman turns away from his laptop, an incongruent white machine perched on the long black lab counters. For a moment Stockman regards me with that ugly, ugly eye of his. Then he chuckles, and I feel my cheeks flush with anger. I grip the laser gun in my hands. Its aim never leaves the dead center of Stockman's chest. Out in the hallway I can hear Chaplin engaged in a firefight with the guards, but I ignore it. Chaplin's a big boy. He can take care of himself.

And besides … I have bigger fish to fry.

"You won't kill me," Stockman is saying in that casual, dismissive tone I've come to know so well. "You shot that beloved turtle of yours just to save me."

"You're wrong. I didn't do it to save you," I growl and then, feeling the slow-burning fury twist in my stomach, I pull the trigger. "I did it to save _him_."

The laser blast sends Stockman's body flying backwards, and he smashes into some bookshelves with a satisfying crash of splintering wood and clattering metal. I watch as the shelves collapse, burying Stockman under the rubble. Grimly I smile. An ignoble end to the illustrious Baxter Stockman. Despite myself, I feel a twinge of pity.

But regrets, if any, will have to come later. The here and now is reserved for nuclear defusing. Whipping out my trusty Geiger counter, I quickly scan the laboratory. Then I frown. That can't be right. The readings say there isn't any radiation at _all_. Maybe Stockman's put the nuke in another room?

Cautiously approaching the laptop, I squint at the screen. I don't recognize the program Stockman has running. So, I take a step closer. There are numerals in the corner of the program window. _3:57._ A clock? But that isn't the right time. _3:56._ Oh, no. No, no, no. Surely it isn't … _3:55._

But it _is_. Oh, of course it is. It's a countdown. Frantically I grab the laptop and pull it closer, my eyes scanning quickly through the lines upon lines of text scrolling across the computer's screen. As I read, I realize why there's no radiation—the nukes aren't here. No, apparently that was too simple a scheme for the late, great Dr. Stockman.

Well, dammit. This complicates things, and things were already plenty complicated enough. If this is just the command center … and the nukes are actually somewhere else … which, knowing my former boss, could be just about anywhere …

_3:29._ But there's no time to worry about that at the present moment. Nervously licking my lips, I delve into the running computer program in front of me. If I can just shut off the countdown, that should buy us the time we need to find the nuclear materials. To defuse whatever bombs Stockman's set. Unsurprisingly, there's a maze of encryptions and security passwords built into the program. Though it's easy enough to get through the first and second encryption layers, the third layer completely blocks all my access attempts.

I try "Oroku Saki" as a password. Just in case. It's a no-go. Also unsurprising.

"Nice try, Ms. O'Neil."

Suddenly I'm flat on my back with a heavy weight crushing down on my chest. Gasping, flailing, I struggle against my attacker and—Stockman? Stockman. But how …

I don't have time to think of an answer. His metal, superhumanly powerful hands are around my throat and choking me. Desperately I claw at his arms, but that only makes him laugh.

He leans down, and his voice hisses in my ear, "You underestimate me, April dear. After that pesky mutant nearly killed me, I took additional precautions—exoskeleton upgrades, improved metallic tension limits, enhanced sensors …"

Stockman keeps rambling on, but the words stop making sense. It's getting hard to think. Think! I've got to think. I don't have to be stronger, I just have to be smarter. And I know I can outsmart this man. Goodness knows I've done it often enough.

" … new titanium chest-plates … "

He squeezes tighter. I can't breathe. Can't think. Let alone fight. My vision goes fuzzy at the edges, and my hands drop down. Shit. So fuzzy now … _shit_ …

Then, abruptly and miraculously, I have air again. I suck down a large gulp, and though it burns like fire, nothing's ever felt so good. As my vision flickers back into focus at the edges, I see concerned brown eyes loom large above my face. Hiroko? A wry smile. Not Hiroko's smile. Not Hiroko.

"Don," I whisper, my voice little more than a rasp.

"You can't keep a good turtle down, April," he replies with a low chuckle. "Not even when you shoot him."

His voice is exactly as I remember—gloating, triumphant, infuriatingly smug. I love his voice. My God, how I love hearing his voice.

As Donatello helps me to my feet, I fight down the urge to cling to him and sob in relief. He's back. He's alive. _I'm_ alive. But now's not the time. I have to focus. Glancing around, I try to get back my bearings. Hiroko and Karai—who must have found Donny in the other lab, I'm guessing—are a few yards away, fighting back Dr. Stockman. Their katanas whistle sharply, and the harsh clang of metal on metal fills the air.

Buying time, I realize, so that Don and I can work to stop the count-down.

_2:16._

I scoot over to the laptop again, and Don immediately follows. His eyes rapidly skim the screen's contents, and he gives a little nod to himself. Finally he says, "New system passwords, I assume?"

"Naturally."

"Perfect." He groans. "That's just absolutely perfect."

I sigh. "I've been trying to break the encryption, but no luck so far."

Thoughtfully he squints at the laptop screen. "Wait a minute. You're already into the system?"

"Yeah, but not with access to anything vital or—"

"Mousers!"

Confused, I turn to him and frown. His eyes are wide, excited, and strangely bright. I find myself wondering if maybe the virus effects haven't completely worn off.

But before I can inquire into Don's physical and mental well-being, out of my peripheral vision I see a stool, thrown by Stockman, come hurtling our way. I grab Don by the back of the head, pull him down, then duck myself. The stool slams noisily into a filing cabinet behind us.

_1:46._

After we both straighten back up, Don glares and takes up the conversation where we left off. "The _mousers_. Don't tell me you've forgotten the first time we ever went up against this lousy two-bit excuse for a mad scientist?"

Of course I remember the mousers. How could I not? But I still don't understand … The mousers! I get it. Don's idea. I get it now. A smile breaks out over my face, and Donatello nods approvingly.

"The mousers," I mutter, bringing up a menu on the laptop. _1:30._ Quickly I begin typing in commands. "Like we did with the mousers. Y'know, that's so crazy it might work."

Don snorts. "April, your faith in me is touching."

Ignoring him, I channel my attention entirely to the laptop. My thoughts race as I continue typing. Like the mousers. Like we did with the mousers. But not like the mousers—not exactly. A self-destruct won't work this time. Surely that would only result in the explosion triggering early. But maybe, maybe something that serves the same _function_ as the mousers' self-destruct did, those many years ago?

_1:02._ Breath on my cheek, hot and moist. Annoyed, I glare sideways and bark out, "Stop back-seat hacking!"

Donatello doesn't reply but he does step back a little. I frown. He stepped back. The words, for some reason, repeat over and over in my brain. Step back. Step back. Back. Back, back, back—like a madwoman, I hurriedly enter a series of commands and then, when the results flash across the screen, I start laughing. Laughing loudly, hysterically, uncontrollably.

_6:00:45._

Six hours. Six hours and forty-five seconds.

Don leans forward again. He studies the screen intently. "What on earth did you do?"

"Just reset the time zone," I gasp out, in between laughs. Then I shoot him a triumphant smile. "Now? Damn program thinks it's in Honolulu."

Leaning back, smirking, Don muses, "Six hours should give us enough time to, uh, _persuade_ Baxter to defuse his cliché doomsday device." He glances over in Stockman's direction. "Or for us to defuse it ourselves, if the good doctor proves characteristically stubborn."

He sounds downright curmudgeonly. Which amuses me for some perverse reason. Still laughing, I throw my arms around Donatello's neck for an overdue hug. Surprised, he staggers backwards but doesn't fall. I hold on tight for a moment, enjoying how solid and real his body feels against mine, before I finally let him go.

Then, for the first time since the virus, I look at him. He doesn't appear too much worse for wear. His eyes are a bit bloodshot, but that's only to be expected. His business suit is gone, though I don't know why, which leaves his scar-marked shoulders and plastron exposed. Most of the scars, however, are clearly old and healed over. Thank goodness. And his arms look—

Oh, my God. How could I have possibly not noticed it before?

His arm. It's _gone_.

---

Author's Notes: One more official chapter. Almost certainly an epilogue will follow, though. Hang in there!


	14. Chapter 12: Hiroko

**Chapter 12**

She reaches out and, very gently, touches what little remains of his right arm.

It is a simple thing, almost unworthy of notice. Yet the very action of April touching my father all but _demands_ that I take notice. My father is Hamato Donatello, president of Saki Industries—nothing, and no one, touches him. Not business rivals, not enemy ninja, not world leaders. Not even I myself, except on rare occasion. Not until today … when a middle-aged, red-haired woman broke all the rules, without even knowing.

But before I can ponder further on this, Karai delivers a sharp kick to Director Stockman's torso and sends him staggering in my direction. While keeping an ear towards my father and April's current conversation, I strike at Stockman with my katana.

"Donny! What happened to your arm?"

Stockman parries, and my blade glances along the length of his metallic limb. He chuckles and, as I slightly lose balance, he whips his other arm towards my head.

"It was amputated. Really, April, I'd think that was rather obvious."

Ducking, I can feel the air rush over my head as Stockman misses. Now is my chance. He's swung too wide and left himself open. I grab my sword with both hands and stab, pushing into the movement with all my weight.

"Yes, I can see that. But _why_ was it amputated?"

The katana hums with tension as it strikes him square in the chest. Then, to my surprise, the blade snaps clean in two.

"I really don't know, April. You'd have to ask Baxter's goons." Even from this distance, I can hear my father's sigh of impatience. "But if I had to speculate? I would imagine it had something to do with the bullet _you_ managed to lodge in my brachial artery."

My head snaps up at this. Bullet? April failed to mention anything to me about a bullet …

Suddenly Stockman's shoving me against the wall, taking advantage of my momentary distraction and trying to grab me by the throat. Fortunately, Karai arrives a mere moment later, katana in hand. She slides the sword around his back, yanking hard and pinning one of his arms to his side.

The science director's solitary eye glares in her direction. "You know, I never did like you, Karai," he sneers, trying to wrench his arm free.

The older woman raises an eyebrow. "The feeling was quite mutual, Dr. Stockman, I assure you."

While Stockman is still focused on Karai, I leap forward and grab onto his other arm. It requires all my strength and training just to hold on. His robotic limbs thrash wildly, and I realize I can't keep my grip for much long. Karai seems to realize this as well. Turning in exasperation to April and Father, still deep in heated conversation, she calls out, "Some assistance, please!"

That grabs their attention. But before they can approach, there's a deafening boom. As the sound echoes loudly off the laboratory walls, I find myself throw onto my back. Silence reigns for a long moment, as black smoke drifts aimlessly overhead. Then I pull myself to my feet in time to see Karai doing the same.

I quickly look around the large room and—there. The source of the smoke. Dr. Stockman is lying motionless near the wall, a smoldering crater now present in his robotic chest. I glance back to Karai, who wears the ghost of a smile as she stares in the opposite direction. Inquisitively I follow her gaze.

Dr. Chaplin is standing in the laboratory door, holding what appears very much to be a bazooka.

"Sorry I was late, Mistress," he says, wearing a broad grin. "I had to go back up to the 'copter to get _this_ little baby." He reaches up to give his bulky weapon an affectionate pat. "It's a specially modulated laser designed to short-circuit robotic systems. State of the art, too. Naturally."

Our reunion is cut short by a groan from behind. Stockman. Still conscious. Karai and I reach him swiftly and each take firm hold of an arm. Chaplin enters the room, his weapon still trained on the fallen doctor, and comes to a halt a mere few feet away from us.

"How poetic," mutters Stockman weakly from the floor, "to die at the hands of the little brownnoser who replaced me, all those years ago."

Chaplin frowns, an oddly hurt expression darkening his eyes. "I didn't _want_ to shoot you, Dr. S. But you really aren't giving us a lot of options here."

"What with the whole megalomaniacal doomsday stuff," adds April. Along with Father, she moves to stand beside Chaplin. "Surely you knew the explosions would kill you too."

At that Stockman lunges forward, but Karai and I manage to keep him in place. Finally, frustrated and defeated, he snarls, "Of course I knew, you ridiculous girl! That was the whole damn point!"

My father glares at him impassively. "And what, exactly, is wrong with a simple rope and noose?"

"John Bishop, that's what!" Stockman shakes his head. "Over and over I die, but that sadistic monster keeps bringing me back to horrid, mutilated life. The annihilation of the District of Columbia was meant to take care of that little problem once and for all."

"And New York? The East Coast?" April asks, her dry tone belied by the anger flashing in her eyes. "Just a happy bonus, I suppose?"

Dr. Stockman chuckles. "Getting rid of Saki Industries _and_ one of those pesky mutant freaks? Certainly sounds like a bonus to me."

With a low growl, April reaches for Chaplin's gun. She grabs it before he can react and then begins charging it to fire. "For over twenty years," April whispers fiercely, "you have managed to make my life a living nightmare. But not anymore, Baxter."

She points the weapon, and I can feel Stockman tremble in my gasp. Then, just as the weapon's hum reaches fever pitch, my father reaches out with his remaining arm and restrains her.

"April, don't."

Surprised, she looks up at him but doesn't speak.

"Don't do this. Don't turn into me." He won't meet her eyes, choosing instead to gaze out the laboratory windows at the black night sky. "Because if you do this …" He sighs tiredly. "There's no going back, April."

Angrily she stares at Stockman, her face hard and unreadable. When at last she lowers the gun, Chaplin gently takes it from her hands. Then he lifts it back onto his shoulder and slowly, carefully, takes aim.

"Dr. Stockman," he says, while the weapon's recharging, "I want you to know that I have nothing but the utmost respect for you. I always have."

"Go to hell, pipsqueak." But there's no bite to what Stockman says, no anger, only sadness. In truth, I almost think I hear a hint of relief.

Dr. Chaplin shoots, at point-blank range. And though the weapon blast is much weaker than before, still the weight in my arms goes slack.

We all wait for several long, tense moments. But the robotic body does not so much as twitch. Then Karai kneels down. She takes her katana hilt and slams it against the glass protecting what is left of the doctor's biological self. Scooping out the brain in one quick motion, she tosses it high and, on its descent, makes several passes through it with her sword. It lands in small gray chunks on the otherwise pristinely white laboratory floor.

April lets out a shuddering sigh.

As Karai sheathes her blade, Chaplin drops the gun and walks over. He puts an awkward arm around her shoulders, and she allows it. "Let's return home, Mistress."

She nods, and they turn to leave. But the old ninja pauses in front of my father. They look into each other's eyes, neither blinking. Then Karai dips her head in a bow—slight but present nonetheless.

Father's eyes go wide with surprise before, after a moment and with a touch of hesitation, he returns her bow with one of his own. Once he has straightened, the two ninja lock eyes again.

"You will take care of her?" Karai snaps, and it is more command than question.

"Yes," Father replies gravely. "I always have, and I always will."

"Very well." She glances over her shoulder at April then at I. "I would say that it was a pleasure working with you both, but that would perhaps be untrue." She pauses thoughtfully. "Suffice it to say, I wish you well. May you live long and fruitful lives."

While April visibly struggles for a response, I choose to merely bow. "_Domo arigato_, Karai."

With a pleased smile she bows in return. Then, Karai leaning on Chaplin, they finally make their way to the door. Just before they disappear from view, Chaplin calls out happily, "Oh, and Dr. O'Neil? If you're ever in Nebraska some time, we should definitely get together and trade lab stories!"

April laughs in reply. After a moment, Father begins chuckling as well.

Meanwhile, I glance back at Dr. Stockman's laptop. "Father, the nuclear threat remains," I begin, musing aloud. "What do you suggest we should do now?"

"Well, somebody should probably call up President Bishop and let him know about what's been going on in his own country." Eyes twinkling, he grins at me. "Let it be the Feds' problem, Hiroko. I think we've already played hero enough for one day."

Just then April frowns and interjects, "Wait a minute. _'Father'?_"

---

Author's Notes: Thanks as always for the wonderful reviews! My apologies for the lack of clarity last chapter in who was narrating. Not my intention, sorry.

In my story outline for Part II of this story, there were alternate versions of this chapter. One had Hiroko die and also revealed an origin story different from the one I've decided on, and the other version didn't. So, partly because Sunbune requested it and partly because I think it fits the story better, Hiroko gets to live to fight another day. (In case anyone's curious, the alternate version would have revealed Hiroko to be an android constructed by Don.)


	15. Chapter 13: April

**Chapter 13**

Grinning, I watch the early morning news on the vid-screen. The top story involves the discovery of buried nuclear waste at various sites, formerly presumed safe, up and down the East Coast. The waste is now being removed, the perky blonde newscaster hurries to inform me, and taken to secure containment areas.

The second news story is about the unfortunate, untimely death of a high administration official. Apparently the National Science Foundation director has died of undiagnosed Non-Hodgkin's lymphoma. One of the administration's spokesmen briefly appears on-screen to give a sound-bite about how tragic and unexpected was Stockman's loss.

The cancer had been Karai's suggestion. And for some reason Don had found the idea hilarious and, since President Bishop had no objections, that's what we went with.

Turning off the viewer, I pause for a moment to collect my thoughts before deciding to leave the comfortable confines of the Saki building's penthouse apartment. I bite my lip once I reach the hall. Where to look, where to look … Following a hunch, I take the elevator down to the laboratories. Quiet and alone, I walk along dark corridors that are still pock-marked with laser fire. It will take weeks to fully rebuild and restore the building. As I venture further down the hallway, I finally spot what I'm looking for—a stray beam of light, slipping under the door to one of the labs.

He's inside at one of the worktables, with only a single lamp to keep him company. Silently I study his profile. He either doesn't have another holoprojector or isn't using it, and I find unspeakable comfort in seeing the gentle round curve of his carapace. Then I frown once I notice the bandages on the stub of his right arm. Though meticulously wrapped, the otherwise immaculate white bandages are incongruously stained with blood.

Dammit. His wound must have ripped open during that scuffle with Stockman. That was hours and hours ago. Has it been bleeding continuously ever since? No way to tell, really. Damn it, and damn him.

Stepping further into the lab, I open my mouth, intending to order him to the Foot infirmary—I assume something like that must still lurk somewhere in the building—but instead I hear myself saying, "You lied to me, Don."

Even though I speak softly, my voice still sounds too loud in the echoing silence of the room.

But ninja instincts prevail. Donatello doesn't flinch or even bother to glance my way. "I'm afraid you need to be a bit more specific, April. I've lied about a lot of things."

"About killing Karai."

"Ah, that," he says, smiling. "Well, if I'd told the truth, you and your conscience would have tried to rescue her sooner or later. And that would have ended poorly for all parties concerned."

He's lying to me still, and we both know it. Thinking things over, I decide to test a hypothesis. "The girl complicated things," I speculate in a quiet voice, "didn't she?"

His face goes suddenly slack. The shadows created by the small lamp hide his eyes.

Though I know I'm right, I can't help prodding, "Oh, come on, Donny. I'm not stupid."

"If I had known at the time I kidnapped Karai that she had—" Don breaks off with a bitter bark of a laugh. "Oh, hell, if only I had known a _lot_ of things …" He turns to look at me for a moment before continuing, completely deadpan, "The girl was an unanticipated variable, yes."

I decide that now's a good as time as any to approach. As I make my way towards the table, I idly glance down at what he's working on. The remains of some project or another lie scattered across the table: strips of metals, tangles of wire, nuts and bolts. On the table also is a soldering iron, as well as various screwdrivers in different sizes. I feel the sudden, strong urge to pick up the nearest tool and offer to help.

This urge takes a surprising amount of effort to repress.

But before it can get the best of me, Don suddenly glances over and demands, "Does she know? Is she angry with me?"

"No. Actually, I'm the one she's mad at."

He seems taken aback by that. "Why you?"

"Because I shot her father."

"Oh."

"And she loves you," I murmur, mostly to myself. "More than you can probably imagine. More than you probably deserve."

He looks thoughtful about that. Absentmindedly he fiddles with the bandage on his arm, making me wince as I watch a drop of fresh blood drip down. Then in a pensive tone he says, "For so many years, Hiroko has been the only family I have. I can't lose her now."

"What about me, Don?" I shake my head, unable to decide whether I'm angry or sad. Or both. "I know you lost your brothers and Splinter, but you didn't have to lose me too."

"Oh, spare me the lecture!" Angrily he jerks away from me and snatches up a nearby screwdriver, clutching it tightly like a dagger. "The first time in years that we met up again, April, you tried to shoot me."

_I did shoot you._ The unspoken words hang in the air between us.

Shaking his head, Don continues, a bit softer, "I don't blame you for it, really. I would have tried to have killed me too. But please, I pray, don't insult my intelligence."

At that I look down, unsure what to do. I want to slap him. I want to yell at him. And I want to hold him close and never let go. Deep down I have no clear concept of just what I want from Don, and perhaps that's the underlying problem. Still, I decide to try again. "They've found most of the nukes already," I tell him, "and the main detonator's definitely disabled." I can't stop a grin from forming. "Congratulations, Mr. Hamato. You helped save millions of lives."

"Just like the good old days, huh?" He doesn't even try to hide the sarcasm.

"Donatello, I swear to—" Utterly frustrated, with both him and myself, I slam my open palm on the table. The jolt sends a stray bolt rolling away and careening off the edge. "I am trying, okay? I am really trying. So why are you making this so hard?"

Without missing a beat he spits, "Because you are not _wanted_ here, April."

I don't miss a beat, either. "Well, that's too goddamn bad. You can't just pick up where you left off now that you have a missing limb." I poke him, hard, in the plastron. "You might not want me. But you need me."

Rolling his eyes, he snorts in derision.

"And I need you too, Donny."

He doesn't snort at that.

As my heart pounds in my chest, I carefully watch his face. The deep shadows dance across his scarred features, as do a cascade of unidentifiable emotions. I wish I could tell what he's thinking. I wish I could make it up to him—for his brothers, for his arm, for everything. Most of all, I wish I could somehow find _my_ Donatello in this damaged, tired turtle now before me.

Suddenly he begins chuckling softly to himself, and I fear that I've finally pushed him too far. Then, looking up and wearing a small smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes, Don intones, "Is this another lesson, Master Splinter? How to sense the truth?"

"No," I reply solemnly, "this is called trusting your gut."

He leans forward, his face now fully illumined by lamplight, and as he studies me intently, it takes all my willpower not to flinch away. He's so close that I can feel his slow, steady breath across my face. He leans a little more, and for one crazy, surreal second in time I'm almost convinced that he's about to kiss me. Then finally Don sighs, a bit melodramatically—and it's the sigh of the put-upon, of the deeply afflicted, of the long suffering. Leaning back into the shadows, he thrusts his arm in my direction and gestures for me to take his screwdriver.

"If you're going to insist on hanging around," Donatello explains irritably, in response to my raised eyebrow, "you should at least make yourself useful."

Triumphantly I smile. I take the screwdriver.

---

Author's Notes: Thus ends this story and the "Eye for an Eye" trilogy. It's crazy to think that a one-shot inspired by a single quote from the old 'toon could lead to the longest story I've written to date (for TMNT or any other genre) … but hey, life is crazy, no? Thanks for all of reviewers who've stuck with me to the end. Y'all are the best.

Also, I'd like to take a moment here to give credit where credit's due. So many folks have done great depictions of what I've personally nicknamed "Dark Donny," and they've all helped to influence my own writing. I highly recommend them:

Pacphys' (hypothetical evil) Stocktello exec from _**Stocktello Enterprises**_ … Askre's (AU evil) former emperor from the _**Assassin series**_ … Wendy Peabody's and Reinbeauchaser's (angsty, not evil) Don Tello from _**Rahab**_ and _**Femme Fatale**_ … and in the world of comics, Tigerfog's (crazy evil?) mad scientist from _**Mutant Ninja Turtles Gaiden**_.

Go! Read!


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